Ambush
by Kaprou
Summary: Peter Parker runs afoul of Kravinoff, the Hunter! Can he protect himself without committing murder? Also has Gwen Stacy, Aunt May, Dr. Strange, Doug Ramsey. Read, review, recommend! (Complete)
1. Chapter 1 of 5

**Ambush**

Gwen leaned her chin on her hand and looked at Peter fondly. In her other hand, she slowly spun the chain her locket depended from. "Hey, hot shot photographer," she said. "What about giving me a picture already?"

"I thought you wanted to keep the locket empty so you could remember all our good times together," Peter grinned, leaning back in his chair.

"Maybe now I have something to remember," she said. "It's been a good time tonight, Peter."

"Aw shucks," he said. "Gonna make me blush." He went for the mock-bashful look.

"Yeah, aw shucks," Gwen said, covering a smile with her hand. "So tell me, Mister Parker. What's a girl gotta do to meet the famous Aunt May? MJ got to meet her right off the bat."

"Hey, all the requirements are met by you, pretty lady," Peter said. "Maybe we can arrange something that doesn't involve you barging into my room and scolding me when I'm sick."

"I am many things, Peter," Gwen said. "I am not pushy."

"Good thing you're persistent though," Peter said, his eyes merry.

"_Entirely_ different story," she sniffed.

"Hey, let's get out of here. I'll take you home."

"Sounds good," Gwen said. She stood and stretched, and Peter was distracted for a moment, whatever he was about to say slipping out of his mind and entirely replaced.

"God you're gorgeous," Peter said.

Her cheeks turned pink, and she turned to pick up her coat. "You are shameless," she said, but there was a glow of pleasure in her voice.

"I have to be," Peter shrugged. He moved to help her with her coat. "Otherwise I'd just curl up in my room and re-live my embarrassments. Brr." He shuddered.

They had paid for dinner half an hour ago, so it was a simple enough matter to walk out of the restaurant and into the blustery night. It was not deeply chilly, but the wind whipped along the streets, howling and moaning in the steel and concrete city like a mournful beast, lost and hunting.

Peter sniffed the air. Felt his blood quicken, his muscles relax, his senses awaken. What a night. What a fine night for flying.

"On a night like this," he said, "I feel like I can let the wind carry me anywhere in the city. Seems a shame to take a car ride when you can fly."

"Well, that makes one of us," she said a bit archly. "I have to get home somehow, and I'd feel indelicate flying with this skirt on. By the way, you're deflecting me."

"Deflecting?" he said, puzzled for a moment.

"Dinner, your house, Aunt May, sound familiar?" she said.

"Ah. That persistence you mentioned," Peter said. "Well, seeing as how today is Sunday, April 6, and the beginning of Spring Break at school, I'm pretty available. When do you want to get together?"

"Thursday's good for me," she said. "I may not have classes, but I'm working and I have some extra-curricular activities that I'm committed to. Flash is having a party, has MJ reached you yet on that? And—Peter? Are, uh, you okay?"

He stood rigid and alert, his eyes bright and focused, his posture unnatural. It seemed like he was listening, sensing, sifting the wind. She felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. "Peter?" she asked, her voice small.

"Ever feel like you're being watched?" he asked, his head slowly turning, as though he was studying something she could not see.

"Peter, this is creepy," she said.

He blinked, and looked at her, and smiled. "Yeah, sorry about that. Uh, Thursday. Thursday is fine. Five o'clock sound good?"

"Sure," she said. She took his arm and snuggled up against him as they walked. "Thanks for a great evening."

"It's the least I could do," he said. "The very least."

They reached his battered old car. "Well, here we are," he said. He opened her door first, then went around to his as she settled in. He opened the door and stopped short.

On his seat was a plastic Halloween spider ring.

The spider's head had been melted off.

Peter picked it up, and looked quickly around. He couldn't see anyone, but he felt... a presence...

"Peter?" Gwen said.

"Yeah," he said shortly, and he slung down into the car. "Yeah. Sorry, I'm a bit distracted. Okay, taking you home. I'd love to stick around, but I'm bushed, it's been a long day, and I've got some things around the house I told Aunt May I'd do," his eyes roving the buildings, hunting, searching, he left his mouth running while his other talents kicked into overdrive, "so if it's all the same I'll just give you a call tomorrow, will that work—"

"Peter," she said, a slight quaver in her voice, "you're scaring me."

Something in him closed, and he looked over at her, the Peter Parker she knew. "Sorry, Gwen. Don't know what came over me." He flashed a smile at her that she uncertainly returned.

**xXx**

He rolled out of bed and stretched. First week day of Spring Break. He glanced over at his alarm clock. It's display was filmy and dim, and it was stuck up against the back of the shelf. "Note to self," he muttered. "Must stop shooting web at alarm clock before I wake up." He shuffled into the bathroom.

"Stupid spider senses never miss it," he grumbled. "Bring bring bring spizz fwap, every morning. Must be a timex." He cupped his hand and breathed into it and sniffed. "Gads," he muttered. His breath was acrid, bitter, steaming. "Woo. No more pre-bed coffee for me."

He brushed his teeth and combed his hair at the same time. Spit and rinse. He sniffed his breath again.

Reek.

"Come on," he muttered. He flossed, brushed again, and used mouthwash. Then he went and got dressed, checking the time. Nine a.m. Still three hours before he was supposed to meet Mr. Ramsey for lunch at Morano's Pizza. Time to develop some film.

He hopped into his new dockers and pulled one of his new shirts out of the closet. "Ah, WalMart, how I love thee," he grinned, adjusting himself. He put on his most comfortable loafers and picked up his camera bag. Sniffed his breath.

"For crying out loud," he muttered. He had no time for further breath adjustment.

"Bye Aunt May," he called over his shoulder as he was through the door.

"Oh, Peter!" she called from the kitchen. She poked her head out of the kitchen, but he was gone and the door was shut.

She sighed and wrote him a note.

**xXx**

Peter poked his head around the corner and looked into the dim booth at the back of the restaurant. "This is cozy," he said.

"I don't do crowds," said the blond man in the booth, his voice quiet. "Please take a seat, Mr. Parker."

Peter slid to a halt in the booth. "Mister Ramsey," he said, extending his hand. "Glad to meet you."

"Just call me Doug," the young man across from him smiled distractedly, his dark eyes blue and his flaxen hair pulled back. He clasped his hand briefly. "Doctor Strange has nothing but praise for your work."

"Really?" Peter said. "Good deal. I've only done one assignment for your magazine so far."

"Here's your chance for another one," Doug said. "First, what do you like on your pizza?"

"Whatever," Peter shrugged.

"Right," said Doug. He flagged down the waitress. "Supreme. Everything but what you find on the floor," he said. She smiled at him and headed for the kitchen.

"Now," Doug said. "The issue we're collecting material on now has the theme 'Things That Eat People' so if you can get some good shots we'll buy 'em. So far we've come up with," he leaned back in his chair, ticking off topics on his fingers, "bacteria, cannibals, cancer, sharks, and age."

Peter grinned. "Never seen something that eats more people than the subway. At least it spits them back out without chewing."

"Hey, you know, that's good. Doc'll go for it." Doug blinked, then slid his pager out of its housing with a practiced motion. He read it over. "Gotta check on this. Sit tight," he said. He stood and headed for the phones in the back of the restaurant.

Peter leaned back against the booth's cushions and sighed, running his hands through his hair. He felt seconds tick in his pulse and he checked the time; ten after twelve. His senses were immediately bored and started running around like spoiled children; he took in the worls of the fake wood veneer on the table, the rough wood on the walls that made the place "rustic," the cook grumbling to the waitress—

The door to the restaurant closed and a sudden hush fell across those in the front area. Peter's senses spun into overdrive. He heard heavy boots taking slow deliberate strides towards him. He moved to peek out when a figure swept into view. Peter looked up.

The man was tall, and broad, built like a heavyweight boxer. His clothes were dark, and his coat swept the edge of the table as he turned to face Peter. His forehead was high and wide, his cheekbones aristocratic. Dark hair was combed back away from his face, out of the way. His eyes were deep set and brooding. His square jaw had a dark trim beard peppered with white, and as he bared his teeth at Peter in what could be a smile they seemed square, bright, strong, sharp.

"Spider ghost," the man intoned, his voice deep and solid, "I will hunt you, creature. Be ready." For a moment that seemed like forever, they made eye contact and each took the measure of the other. Then, before Peter came to grips with the situation, the huge man spun on his heel and strode out.

Peter blinked.

Then he vaulted out of the booth and shook off whatever hypnotic effect those eyes had. He dashed to the front of the restaurant and bashed open the door, springing out onto the sidewalk and glancing around.

Predictably enough, the man was gone. Traffic bustled, pedestrians threaded their way around each other, and open businesses all around provided an environment that quickly made the dark stranger untraceable. Warily, Peter backed into the restaurant and headed for the back booth.

"Nuh uh," he muttered. "We are _not_ having this." He saw Doug returning, and an idea came to him. "Doug, would you do me a huge favor?"

"What kind of favor?" Doug asked.

"I need the security tapes for the last fifteen minutes from this establishment," Peter said. "While you were gone, some nutcase came in here and threatened me. I don't want to involve the police. Please?" He smiled his best smile.

Doug sighed. "I don't like it," he said, shaking his head. "I'll see what I can do."

"Could you give the tape to Strange and get me an appointment with him?"

"I'll give the tape to Strange," Doug said shortly, "but your photos are going to have to get you an appointment."

"That's fine," Peter said. "That's just fine."

"Take care," Doug said.

"I'll see you around," Peter said with as much of a smile as he could manage. Then he was outside, almost running, ducking into the alley.

"Yeah, 'be ready' this," he muttered as he ducked out of his shirt, hopped out of his pants and shoes, quickly twisted web around his clothes and hid them behind the dumpster. "Spider ghost indeed." From its tightly wrapped patch on his back he unfolded his spider mesh and slipped into it, feeling his body temperature rise, his senses open like a clenched fist uncurling, his muscles relaxing, his speed coiling.

Mid day. Lots of people. Stealth in order. He bounced to the wall and scuttled up to the roof, rolling onto it and peeking over the side.

Nearby. The hunter was still nearby. Peter _felt_ him.

With the mesh over his face, he smelled his breath. "Blegh," he muttered. "Like I need this on top of everything else." Then his stomach gurgled. "Oh yeah, no lunch," he grumbled. "So much for the first day of spring break." He felt a sudden chill. He thought and focused for a moment, trying to identify it.

Vulnerability.

He shivered. "Enough of this." He glanced around and sprang to the building next door, then scuttled up it. He stood to his full height on that building, and looked around. Urban, daytime. He never exercised downtown. Under the mesh, he smiled. Time to start. His smile faded. Get some distance. Get the spider mind busy with action so he could do some serious thinking.

His eyes were drawn to a skyscraper that lunged far up into the sky. Yeah. That's the ticket.

**xXx**

The side of the building blurred beneath him as he jinked and juked, scrabbled and hopped upward. Like running, only fighting a gravity that was stronger than wind. Ten floors up so far. Peter felt it in his muscles, in his chest, the beginning of the end of his breath.

Specific to general to specific. That's how questions run. So the specific began; he was a "spider ghost" and because of that some whack job wanted to kill him. He heard a gasp through the thick glass as he shot past a window; oops. Someone must have been reflecting on the view of the city from twelve floors above it when he flashed by. Peter couldn't help but grin.

So this time someone wanted to kill him because he was different. The hunter had chosen a time to make contact when Peter was on a date. What if it had been a confrontation instead of a warning? What about Gwen?

Peter darted past a flagpole. No resting. No cheating. Just counting floors and moving up, leaving the risk of falling unseen behind him, steadily growing while he looked forward to his goal.

Yes, what _about_ Gwen. What would she say, what would she think if she knew what he was capable of? One thing not to tell your date that you are a great soccer player and can paint like Van Gogh, another thing to keep from her the fact that you can stroll across the ceiling and spin your own leotards. What if he was attacked because of his powers and the enemies those powers made? What of her? What if she found out from someone besides him?

He skimmed around to the west side of the building to get more shade and he kept propelling himself upward, feeling the distance to the ground growing as though it was a weight beneath him that gripped him more firmly as he ascended.

Specific to general. Twenty one years of life; at the end of college, what then? What sort of honest work can a man get when he can shoot webs out of his arms and punch a normal mortal to death with an accidental blow? Would the spider be sacrificed for the normal life, or the normal life given up in an ascent to power and wealth?

He felt the tugging of his breath in his chest as he hit thirty floors. He pushed on, up, his speed undiminished, his thoughts spinning wildly.

His webs would always threaten his normal life, and his normal life would always pose a threat to his unnatural powers. But the threat of surrendering either loomed above him, and he raced towards it.

General to specific. What about this hunter? Could Peter justify the hunter's death to save his own life? And what about... what about Gwen?

The top, at long last, the top. Peter launched up in the air, caught the lip of the roof, and swung himself up, his chest heaving and his heart hammering. Forty floors. Damnation. He peered down.

From up here, the cars looked like tiny insects.

And Peter was the spider.

He stood and looked at the pucker marks of the spinnerets in his forearms; they were currently drooling a little web. "The question is not who I am," he murmured, "but _what_ I am. How thick is the line between man and beast?"

On an impulse, his blood still a fury in his veins, he leaped off of the building and began to spin in free fall. It was the man that pushed him off the side; the wind whipped past him, waking him up to a razor point of experiencing life that cut him to the bone.

Webs shot out; his descent became an arc.

The spider carried him through whatever the man in him started.

Maybe, just maybe, that was the answer.

A troubled creature swung towards its lair.

**xXx**

Peter Parker strolled through the front door and walked up to the answering machine. Blinking. Messages. He touched the Play button.

neep "Peter, this is MJ, remember we got a party for Flash tomorrow night, it's his birthday, gimmie a call back and I'll give you the lowdown on time and stuff. Figure about twenty bucks will work for the gift and party, so we'll look forward to your contribution. I would just expect you to miss the bash, but Gwen will be there, so the way I see it you have no good reason not to show up. You have my number, tiger." neep.

neep "Pete, this is Harry. You up for some apartment hunting this week? Look for some space in the urban jungle to set up our hunting platforms? Really, though, Wednesday is good for me, noon. Gimme a call." neep.

neep "Peter, this is Gwen, just wondering when you planned on picking me up for Flash's party tomorrow. How about four? This is no time to get _mysteerious_ on me, big guy. Be in touch." neep.

Peter heaved a deep sigh. "I gotta lay my hands on some cash," he muttered. "This poverty bit is really cramping my style." He picked up the note by the answering machine.

"Peter—I have an appointment at hairdressers. Pick me up at 4:30? Aunt May"

"Yeah, sure," he muttered. "Car still works." He trudged up the stairs and down the hall to his room. Glanced at the clock. Almost two. He had time. He opened the closet and pulled out a small mannequin of a child. "C'mere, Chuck," he muttered. "Daddy needs new long underwear." He picked up a can of black spray paint and two small round pieces of posterboard. Back down the stairs, all the way down to the basement.

He set up the child mannequin and stepped back. Then he rolled up his sleeves. His forearms flexed, and a thin mist of spray hissed out of his arms over the figure. As the webbing spattered over the plastic figure, it thickened. He walked around the short figure, spraying as he went, until it was evenly coated. He stepped back and took a critical look at his work.

"Not bad," he said. The pale gray webbing was already drying into dense fabric. Peter stuck the two circles of posterboard on the face. "Eyes," he muttered. Then he shook the rattling can of black spray paint. He worked over the webbing for a few minutes until every inch was black. Then he peeled the posterboard off, revealing pale eyes.

"Stretched, it's just right for a friendly neighborhood wall crawler," he said to himself. He grinned, and pushed the figure back behind a sofa. He would return and strip the webbing off and fold it into a thin black patch to conceal on the small of his back later.

Right now, he had a sweet old lady to pick up from the hairdressers.

**xXx**

They sat at a stoplight, Peter with his arm casually hanging out the window and Aunt May with her purse primly gripped with both hands in her lap. "Your hair looks great, Aunt May," Peter said with a smile.

"Why, thank you, Peter," she said, blushing and patting her hair, which looked exactly the same to him as it had before she went in. "And thank you for being on time picking me up, too."

"Hey, nothing's too good for my girl," he said. "Which reminds me. Are you terribly busy on Thursday?"

"Hm, no, nothing going on Thursday," she said. "Why?"

"Well, right now I'm seeing this girl, her name is Gwen Stacy. I was thinking about inviting her over to dinner, you know, to meet you," Peter said casually. "How would five o'clock on Thursday be?"

"Oh Peter," Aunt May said, positively beaming, "that would be fine, just fine. We could have some roast, yes, and I could make some stuffing. Does she like pie?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure she's a red blooded American, Aunt May, so whatever you make will suit her just fine." Peter got a sinking feeling as he watched Aunt May's excitement meteorically rise.

"That's good, that's wonderful. I'll get out the china for this. Peter Parker bringing a girl home to meet me. Must be serious, hm?"

"What can I say," Peter said with a pained smile. "She's special."

"Special, yes, special," Aunt May said as her plans took wing.

Peter wondered if he had perhaps given her too much time to prepare.


	2. Chapter 2

Tuesday.

Peter melded with the rush hour crowd headed into the subway to get to work. He had a shoulder bag on one side and his camera bag on the other. He was one with the crowd as they punched their tickets going through the turnstile, then he moved to the side and took some shots of people coming through, lining up the turnstiles and taking a picture like a race track with commuters hot out of the boxes. He wandered down the stairs, deeper into the subway station and snapped a few shots of roof joists. They were always so _filthy_. Difficult for a self-respecting wall crawler to stay clean.

Then he was down to the actual subway station. He snapped a couple shots of people flowing on and off the train, a shot or two of the train barreling in and streaking out, people waiting. Then he casually slung his camera, slipped off his shoes, and nonchalantly hopped sideways off the platform.

He listened for a moment to see if anyone had noticed his exit. Hearing nothing, he scuttled up the wall and adjusted himself on the ceiling of the tunnel. The next train was not long in coming, and from this vantage he got some unique shots of the front of the train, its loading and unloading, the conductor watching the screen in the train to see when the platform was clear enough to pull out. The train pulled away, and Peter dropped, holding the camera in one hand.

With his other hand and his feet he snagged the top of the speeding train. The train rocketed through the confined space, whisking adrenaline into Peter's blood as he snapped shots no other photographer could get. He grinned.

About twenty minutes and three rolls later, he was ready to call it quits. He had been under trains, in trains, over trains, beside trains, and all over several stations in town. He had as many shots as he needed. Rolling up onto a platform from the track, he brushed at himself and glanced around, slipping his shoes on.

What a lucky coincidence. This station was right by the park. He grinned and trotted up the stairs.

It had turned into a beautiful day. He smiled and soaked in the sun as he walked along a jogging path in the park, not exercising so much as taking in the scenery. The path took a turn, and he saw a construction crew working on rebuilding a burned down gazebo.

He couldn't help but smile. He took a few shots for a friend of his, and a few for himself.

For old times sake, he took a couple shots of pigeons and one of an old woman feeding the birds.

**xXx**

Peter stood holding the bar on the crowded subway train, half alive like the other passengers, simply enduring the ride until it was his stop and life could resume. The car was half empty at mid morning. Then his senses perked up.

He blinked, and glanced around. Sifted for a moment; what was it? Some smell, some sound? He examined what his senses were telling him, looking for the thing they had picked out, the thing that did not belong. Then his senses almost vibrated with alarm; close, too close!

Peter spun around and found himself face to face with the man from the restaurant. Now that they were both standing, he found himself still looking up at the big man. How did he move so quietly?

The big man took a swing at him, and Peter easily evaded without moving his feet. "You'll have to do better than that," he said. He grabbed the big man's wrist and tugged him off balance, to the side where he couldn't lash out effectively.

The big man grinned.

Peter gasped as he felt an iron grip clamp down on his wrist; a quick twist combined with surprise released the hunter from Peter's grasp. Then the big man was turning, and Peter's eyes widened as too late he saw the blow incoming—

Some part of his mind noted the brass knuckles as the big man's solid fist crashed into the side of Peter's head, right at the hinge of his jaw. Peter's neck muscles elongated with the stress, his skull shifted with the blow, and he rocked back with its force. Another punch lashed downward, into his gut, and he barely rolled with it. Whoever this joker was, he wasn't kidding. The blow thudded home, and Peter spun out of the way and back. Now he was tense, alert, more than human. No more. No more punching. He vaguely registered screaming, people scrabbling to get out of the way of the fight.

"Just taking your measure," the big man said. His smile grew. "This will be _good_."

Peter tensed to spring as the train slowed for the station. The hunter pulled something out of his belt and tossed it on the floor of the train. A flash, and smoke roiled out in all directions.

Peter reeled for a moment as his senses probed and darted through the smoke, distracted and disoriented by its billowing shapelessness; motion everywhere, but was it smoke or something more dangerous? The doors on the subway train snapped open automatically, and Peter felt people moving, but he struggled with his senses for a moment as they tried to grasp what could not be grasped. He tumbled out of the train coughing, and looked around, furious.

There were a lot of people on the platform, and more moving up and down the stairs, a stairwell on either end of the platform.

Damn. _Damn._

Peter was trembling as he leaned against one of the supports. He gingerly touched his jaw. Peter's attacker seemed to be nothing more than an insane, physically fit man, but he was a big strong man with brass knuckles and the reflexes of a panther. Peter felt pain as he opened his mouth and shut it. Must count teeth later, he mused.

The train pulled away, and only then did Peter look down at his bags.

His camera bag was gone.

Must have fallen off during the battle.

"_Just_ what I need," he snapped. He kicked off his shoes, stuck them in his remaining bag, and darted off in pursuit of a train.

**xXx**

Peter slammed the door behind him just after two in the afternoon. "I'm home," he called.

"Oh, Peter," Aunt May said, coming out of the kitchen, "two people called for you while you were gone. One was Gwen, something about a party tonight. Then that odd fellow from the Planetary called."

"Thanks," Peter said, giving her a swift peck on the cheek. "I'll call 'em back." He bounded up the stairs.

Tossing his bags on the bed, he scooped up the phone and kicked off his shoes. He consulted his post-it notes tacked up over the phone until he saw Doctor Strange's number. He punched it in.

Three rings, then: "Hello, speak your mind."

"Doc," Peter grinned, looking out the window. "Did you call me?"

"Yes," Doctor Strange said. "I got some information from that tape, and I am concerned for you. Are you busy?"

Peter glanced at the clock. "I have a little time," he said. "I'll be over."

"Very good," Strange said, "come to the office," and he hung up. Peter tossed the phone at the cradle, where it landed flawlessly. He picked up the note with Gwen's number on it.

"Memorize this," he muttered to his brain, which obliged. He scooped up his camera bag and headed out.

Twenty minutes later he walked into the lobby of the office building that contained the Planetary magazine. He took the elevator up and stepped out into the executive office.

Strange was seated at a glass table, some papers before him, a television behind him. Doug was ensconced in a desk setup that surrounded him with screens and keyboards.

"Hello, Doug," Peter said. "How's it glowing?"

"Vicarious and inimitable," Doug said, his face awash in dim light from the monitors. "You?"

"Yeah," Peter said. "Doctor Strange, I presume?"

"Charming," Strange said. "Have a seat." Peter sat. He saw the tape from the restaurant was playing on the television, looped.

"As you can see," Strange said, leaning back, "the man was quite careful not to reveal his features to the camera directly. However, Doug was able to build an algorithmic reconstruction that allowed us to run a search for him."

"Sounds like a lot of trouble," Peter said in a small voice.

Strange looked at him sideways. "I value those who work for me," he said. "Think nothing of it. At any rate, we have an identity for your menacer. His name is Sergei Kravinoff." Strange watched him for a moment.

"Doesn't ring a bell," Peter said with an apologetic shrug.

"Hm. Well, this sly fellow has a bit of a record that Doug could get to immediately. Currently Doug is looking for the rest of the information that is surely out there on such a famous figure. Kravinoff is known in his mother country of Russia as simply 'The Hunter' and he's built a reputation across the third world as an extraordinary poacher. He's wanted in a dozen countries for poaching, across Africa and India and Australia and even here in the United States. If it's dangerous, he's killed it," Strange said. Then he leaned forward. "This is where it gets odd, Mr. Parker. It seems last year our trophy collector sold his collection."

"Sold it? Like, lion heads and claws and buffalo and whatever?"

"Exactly. He sold over a million dollars worth of trophies in one gigantic sale," Strange said.

"Why?" Peter asked blankly.

"Perhaps," Strange said, steepling his fingers, "they had grown stale."

A chill rippled up Peter's spine as he began to understand. "Gotcha," he said, and he swallowed hard. "Now he's out to mount photographers."

"I think we both know it's more than that," Strange said. "Be careful, Peter."

"I don't suppose this guy would pay attention to a restraining order," Peter said.

"Seems unlikely," Strange agreed. "So what are you going to do about it?"

Peter looked at him for a long, long moment. "I'm going to do what I have to do to make him stop."

"A word of caution," Strange said softly, his eyes seeming to gleam in the dim light. "I sense a vengeful streak in you. It can be your undoing." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Remember the fate of monsters, Peter."

Peter watched him for a moment. "What, that's it? 'Remember the fate of monsters'? If they're cool enough they get a movie franchise. Speaking of monsters, though, maybe you can help me out with this mystery. It's embarrassing, but since it's never happened to me before I wonder if you might have an idea as to what's causing it. I've had hella awful breath. This morning I brushed my teeth five times and used a half a bottle of mouthwash and my breath _still _reeks. I haven't eaten anything different. Do you have any idea what could be wrong with me?"

"Can anyone else smell it?" Strange asked.

"You're the first person I've asked about it, but nobody seems to notice," Peter said.

"Interesting," Strange said. He produced a tissue from his pocket. "Suck on your tongue and spit in the napkin," he said.

Peter did so. He looked down at the sticky glob of spit in the napkin. Its smell was powerful.

Strange sniffed. "I smell nothing," he said. "Can you smell it?"

"Oh yeah," Peter said.

"This is just a hypothesis," Strange said, "but it could be your body is secreting a phermonal tracking device. If you spit on someone with this," he said, gesturing at the colorless glob in the tissue, "you might be able to scent it and track it from some considerable distance off. I know of some other creatures who can do the same. If that's true, no ordinary soap and water could remove the smell."

"Creatures? Like animals?" Peter said, a small tremor in his voice.

Strange hesitated, then shook his head. "No, Peter. Not like animals. _Creatures._" Strange stood. "I wish you good luck, Mister Parker," he said. "If we can help you deal with this hunt, we will. You know how to reach us."

"You've already given me a head start," Peter said, standing and extending his hand. "Sorry about the attitude. I'm a little rattled."

"You should be rattled," Strange said as the shadows shifted behind him. "This is a very dangerous time for you."

"Well, thanks a lot, I'll look forward to hearing from you guys," Peter said on his way out.

Strange watched him go.

**xXx**

"Hi," Peter said, leaning against the side of the phone booth. "Is Gwen there? Thanks." He shifted positions. "Hey, Gwen," he said. "Peter. Uh, I've had something come up. I'm not gonna be able to make the party tonight. I have this heinous deadline for some photography. Can we get together on Wednesday so I can give you a briefing on dealing with Aunt May, just the primer course? Sure, lunch on Wednesday sounds great, I'll pick you up. Look, sorry to miss out on the party. You know I love Flash like a brother. Okay, well, good deal. MJ already offered to take you? Mighty sweet of her, give her a kiss for me, wouldja? Heh, no, have a great time, if I can wrap this photo essay up in time I'll drop by tonight. See ya, hon." Peter hung up and thunked his forehead against the phone. "God I'm a heel," he muttered.

He walked into the science building and headed down the hall towards the photography lab. "Get these suckers developed and I'm on my way to fiscal security," he muttered. "Lunch with Gwen—ah, no," he said. "I'm apartment hunting with Harry on Wednesday! No, no, we can do this, just do lunch at eleven, meet him at noon. I'm okay. I can do this." He got to the lab and moved to open it; the door was locked. He saw the note on the door.

_Lab closed for cleaning Tuesday—staff_

Peter counted to ten very slowly.

Then he counted to ten again.

"It's okay," he whispered. "I'll swing by home and then pick up Gwen and take her to the party and give MJ the money afterwards. We're still okay. It just maybe is possible I need to relax anyway. Maybe."

He turned and with measured deliberate steps left the building.

**xXx**

Peter was halfway up the stairs when he registered what he had seen; he went back down and glanced into the kitchen.

Aunt May was unloading grocery bags.

"There sure is a lot of stuff here, pretty lady," Peter said, glancing around.

Aunt May turned, beaming. "Oh yes," she said. "We're going to have a perfectly lovely dinner on Thursday."

"There's only three of us," Peter grinned.

"And supper will be just perfect for three people," she said primly. "Now leave me be, I have planning to do."

"It's Tuesday," Peter said.

"Which gives me plenty of time so I won't have to rush around at the last minute," she sniffed. "I want things to go well, to make a good impression on your special lady."

Peter successfully tried not to laugh. "Okay, well, don't wear yourself out. I'm going to a party," he said.

"Have a good time," she said with a wave as she peeked into one of the bags. He trotted upstairs.

As he walked into his room the phone rang. He picked it up. "Yellow."

"Peter, this is Doug," came the voice. "I hit paydirt on this Kravinoff guy. You sitting down?"

Peter sat down. "Hit me."

"He's the son of a czar family, if you can believe it. Peter, I've found out some about his hunts. This guy is a loon. He killed a bull elephant with a katar, Peter. I have a record of him killing a lion with weighted fists, beat the poor thing to death. He's killed a shark with a knife. Here, five years ago in the Rockies he killed a grizzly bear with a weighted chain, for God's sake. Three years ago he headed north and took out a moose with a hatchet. With a _hatchet_. I'm worried for you, Peter. This guy is fearless and unhampered by self preservation or common sense. Watch yourself, man."

"Don't worry about me," Peter said. "I'll be fine. Just give me this guy's address and phone number."

"Wasn't easy to get," Doug said. "He is a fugitive in this country. You could get him jailed."

"No good," Peter said, shaking his head. "He's declared the hunt on me. If he goes to jail, then either I have to keep track of when they release him and start this ridiculous business over again or I get nailed when I least expect it. They got anything on him that would be more than a couple years in jail?"

"Not if he has a good lawyer," Doug said. "I see your point." He read the address and phone number to Peter.

"I'll take care of this," Peter said shortly. "See you later." He hung up.

Vulnerability moved to fear, which moved to anger, which moved to hate, all in a seamless motion through Peter's chest. He felt that anger coiling in him as he looked at the address he had quickly written. Hunter, indeed.

He didn't realize he had completely forgotten about Flash's party. Such a petty notion was alien to the creature that slipped into mesh and stole out the window.


	3. Chapter 3

Dusk.

The spider ghost hissed through the air on his webs, slinging towards where he knew the hunter was hidden. Hunters were not soldiers. They didn't fortify their positions, they concealed them. If the position was found, then the hunter had to be ready to deal with it.

An hour later Peter found himself in a run down part of town. Tenement houses backed up to a switching yard for the railroad. The whole neighborhood seemed a uniform dreary brown. Peter stalked along the rooftops until he found the building he was looking for.

Marvelous. It had a fire escape.

Peter crouched on the roof and thought. He should probably wait until three in the morning, when everybody should be asleep, even psychopathic hunters. However, the longer he waited the greater his chance of being discovered by some devious and unexpected trap the hunter would doubtless prepare around his lair, and if the hunter escaped Peter wasn't sure he could find him again.

Then deeper, older thoughts came to him; not with words, but with anger. Pride. This hunter would take him for a trophy. This hunter's arrogance must be schooled. This hunter must be educated about the foolishness of his pride.

Peter shook his head. "If I hurt him, scare him, maybe he'll leave me alone," Peter muttered.

Or just maybe you'll be in a position where you accidentally kill him on purpose.

Peter gritted his teeth. "Enough of this," he gritted out. "Let's just do it."

Not trusting any direct access to the apartment, Peter stole down to the end of the building and climbed down headfirst to the second floor, where the hunter's apartment was. He opened the window, and slipped inside. The lights were erratic and dim at best, so he hopped up to the ceiling and moved around them, keeping his body tight and close to the ceiling.

A tired woman opened the door to an apartment, her television blaring to her children. She closed the door. She looked like she was going to work. Peter waited for her to shuffle down the hall before he continued down the hall. Almost nine now. Should be quiet around here.

Peter rolled the mesh up off his mouth. He adjusted himself above the hunter's door, his back to the seam where wall met ceiling. He lowered his heel and bashed on the door a few times. "Landlord, open up," he said in as coarse a voice as he could manage. He rolled the mesh back down and waited, curled almost upside down, fingertips on the wall over the door.

Chain, bolt, lock. The door opened. "I am paid through—"

Peter spun down, uncurling, his legs whipping out at the hunter.

The hunter had good reflexes; he put his power into trying to slam the door, and the spider ghost was deflected and knocked inside the apartment instead of connecting with the mighty kick. They squared off.

Senses whirling, the spider ghost saw it was a two room apartment, spare and almost empty. A rack of hand to hand weapons was on one counter, and that was all the adornment in the place. The hunter stood before him, dressed in canvas pants and a t-shirt, wearing heavy boots, eyes flashing with excitement.

They did not speak. There was no need.

The spider ghost sprang, and the hunter lashed out with his fist. Peter was ready for his speed this time, and he slapped the fist aside and connected with the force of his leap carried through his forearm into the hunter's chest. The hunter flew backwards and crashed into the wall, bashing a hole in the plaster with his torso. He spun out of the way as Peter followed with a blow that carried his fist through the plaster, lathe, and plaster on the other side.

The hunter slashed out with a nasty punch that would have caught the spider ghost on the side of the head had it not been deflected.

"You caught me once," Peter said, "and I fell for it. No more." He pulled his arm free and sprang out of reach. "No more."

"Show me," whispered the hunter, his eyes bright and excited. "Show me what you can do."

A snap and a hiss; web spat out at the hunter. The hunter dove out of the way and flipped the table over, catching the next two strings on it instead of on himself.

Peter tugged on the webbing and the table jerked up through the air towards him. Peter punched it in the middle and it shattered. The hunter scooped a couple items off the floor where they had fallen from the table when it toppled.

The hunter rolled out of the way as another web zipped after him. Peter sprang towards him, caught his shoulder, and tossed him up against the wall. The hunter thudded back, and dust sifted down from the ceiling.

The spider ghost grabbed the hunter's ragged shirt and tugged him close, eye to eye.

"I did nothing to you," the spider ghost hissed. "You came after me unprovoked."

"Life is hard," the hunter said. The spider ghost shoved him back into the wall once, twice, three times. The plaster exploded outward, the lathe cracked, the lights flickered. Peter glanced away; then his senses screamed and he let go to jump back as he heard—

The whicker of a razor sharp blade leaving its sheath—

The hunter was no match for the spider ghost in raw speed, but he was not slow either. Peter heard the knife and he was ready for it.

He completely missed the pepper spray in the hunter's other hand. It hissed loose, beading on the mesh mask.

Agony erupted through Peter as his hyper-alert senses explored the effects of the pepper spray saturating his mask.

He took a few quick steps back, gripping his face and howling. Where was the hunter, where was the hunter, close by—

The spider ghost forgot all about the pepper spray as ten inches of razor knife rammed into his gut; Peter thought he could feel the blade's tip scratch against his spine. Not pressing his advantage, the hunter tore the knife free; sure enough, the back of the blade was serrated. Peter stopped screaming, bounded back, slapping against the wall and gripping his gut, beyond screaming.

must not pass out must not pass out must not pass out

Peter grabbed the mesh on his face and tore it off, throwing it away. He was already recovering from the spray; the mesh had stopped almost all of it. He gasped in agony, feeling his organs shift, the raw screaming pain of a severe gut wound. Time. Need time.

"Impressive," the hunter rumbled. "But you are losing blood. Shall we finish this here?" His slow Russian accent gave extra menace to his words.

Heavy footsteps in the hall. A figure at the door.

"Dammit, Kraven, there goes your deposit—"

Landlord.

The spider ghost spun web out that hit the door and slapped it shut, then more that sealed it with a glob of adhesive. "Just between us," he gasped hoarsely. "Just us." He felt blood soaking his mesh, trickling down his legs, running down the wall. Can't keep bleeding or—

Can't keep bleeding.

The spider ghost sprang at the hunter, shoving him, hard. The hunter slammed out through the closed window, taking some of the frame with him, and bashed into the fire escape. He rolled to his feet and slid down the fire escape. Peter's shoulders sagged. This guy was tougher than he looked, for a normal man.

Oh yeah. Insanity. Helps tremendously with durability.

Peter tore some mesh off his torso and pinched the three inch wide gash shut with his fingers. He sprayed a sticky glob of web over the wound, sealing in most of the blood. It had to hold. It _had_ to. Then he crawled along the wall towards the fire escape. Upon reaching it, he saw the hunter clear the fence around the rail yard like an Olympic athlete. Peter controlled his fall down the fire escape, and he walked to the fence and clambered over.

Must end this tonight.

There, in the shadow of the boxcar, stood the hunter. Waiting for him.

"You know," the hunter said in his slow voice, "I had a more elaborate hunt arranged, since you are the first of your kind I will hunt. You were going to help me refine my technique. You are too clever for that, so you force us to, how you say, cut to the chase. Which is also fine." He smiled, his teeth pink with blood. Reached into a pocket in his pants.

Pulled out brass knuckles.

His smile widened.

Peter felt a wave of raw pain course through him, draining his strength; he felt his knees weaken, and he leaned back on the fence. Tired; he was so tired.

The hunter came towards him.

The spider ghost took over. Web shot out and slapped into the hunter's foot; he stumbled, off balance, as the spider ghost scuttled low across the ground to where he was. The hunter cut his boot out of the web in time for the spider ghost to slam a blow into his shoulder as he spun to evade. Flipping in the air, he crashed into the metal side of a boxcar and dropped to the ground. His knife glittered as it spun out of his hand, clattering to the ground somewhere in the maze of rails.

The wind howled through the rail yard, rattling the fence in its sudden force. Rain; the spider ghost scented rain on the wind.

A fine night for flying.

The spider ghost flung web at a boxcar and was tugged by its elastic length towards the car; he slapped onto it and crawled over the top, every move steeped in liquid fire pain that coursed through his belly. Good. More boxcars. He hid.

Listened.

Crunch of boots on gravel.

"Please do not go so soon," came the slow Russian voice. "This was always my favorite part of the hunt; tracking the wounded predator to where it goes to ground, where it has nothing to lose and is pushed to its limit by hate." The hunter slowly and carefully walked between the boxcars, where visibility was low and the ambush was inevitable. He was careful in his recklessness.

"I feel you nearby, spider ghost. I feel your blood, your energy, running from you." The hunter's eyes probed the dark spaces, and he was careful to constantly look up. "There is no shame in your fear. You are in a tight corner now. I will find you and I will kill you."

"Have you ever been afraid?" echoed a faint voice. The hunter stopped, ears working, his attention and focus fierce and intense.

"Only once," the hunter said, changing the tack of his search. "Only once."

"So what happened?" echoed the voice from a different direction. The hunter smiled.

"I was in the Democratic Republic of the Congo," the hunter said. "I was hunting, and I had shot a water buffalo. It went into the tall grass, and I followed. I found what was left of it, spider ghost, and something had utterly destroyed it. Whatever ate it had jaws bigger than your body," the hunter said as he worked his way around a car, homing in on his prey. "So I followed it, seeing I had a bigger and better creature to hunt. That's is when I felt the Beast for the first time," he said, eyes bright in the darkness. "I was eighteen."

"I probably wasn't even born," came the voice, the wind carrying it. The hunter smiled brutally, lowering himself and continuing along his course.

"No, you weren't," the hunter said. "In the darkness of the depths of the jungle, alone, I caught the Beast and found that it was no animal after all. We fought. I lost. But it was pleased with me, and gifted me as no mortal hunter has ever been gifted. I smell your blood, spider ghost."

"You are an amazing hunter, I'll give you that," came the voice, this time from another direction. "Why me?"

"You are the beginning of my true destiny," the hunter said. "I was not made to be wasted on mere animals when such demons as you stalk the world."

"Oh, then we can end this right now," the spider ghost's voice reverberated in the sudden stiff wind. "I'm one of the good guys."

"Are you?" the hunter asked, his face cruel. "For now, perhaps. But you are dangerous, my friend, and powerful. I will kill you."

The hunter spun and lashed out, even as the spider ghost punched at him. The brass knuckles crashed into the spider ghost's knuckles with a dull crunch, and the spider ghost gasped and whirled away as the hunter's face suddenly paled.

The spider ghost reeled back and leaned against the side of the box car, chest heaving with gasps, and the hunter dragged the dented brass knuckles off his trembling fingers and shifted them onto his other hand.

Nothing to be said. The hunter moved first.

He swung with his weighted fist and the spider ghost easily deflected the blow, but did not see the steel toed boot whipping up and thudding into his groin, jolting his gut wound. He staggered, and the hunter smashed a blow home on the side of his head with the knuckles. So big; the hunter was a big man loaded with muscle. Right now, normal muscle was doing the job.

The spider ghost whipped out with superhuman speed and punched the hunter in the gut, the force blasting him off his feet and through the air. The hunter slammed into a box car at an angle and rebounded, slapping down on the gravel and sliding. He lay curled, struggling to straighten, as the spider ghost shook his head to clear it.

Thunder rolled through the sky, echoed by the blast of a train horn approaching. The spider ghost closed in on the hunter. Reached for him.

The hunter rolled over suddenly, his foot lashing out and snapping the steel toed boot sideways into the spider ghost's knee. The spider ghost stumbled, and the hunter rolled forward and whipped out with the knuckles, catching him in the same knee, directly on the cap. The leg flew back, leaving the spider ghost unbalanced for a moment. The hunter reached for him.

Unbalanced was not enough for the spider ghost; he bounded up on his good leg, into the air, flipping, twisting, and came down ten feet away. The hunter was up and charging, unexpectedly fast as he launched through the air. A hasty backhand caught him in the shoulder and knocked him away, so he plowed into the gravel again. He rolled and came to his feet facing the spider ghost, bleeding.

The ground trembled as the coal train rumbled nearer.

"I was going to use traps," the hunter gasped, chest heaving, blood trickling from a dozen cuts. "I was going to use tricks and strategy to get close. All along, though, this is what I wanted. What I longed for. Face to face. I want to beat you, spider ghost. You are my prize."

"This..." rasped the spider ghost. "This aint no cracker jacks box..." That's all he could manage.

The spider ghost was fading fast. Time to finish it while it could still end in victory. He sprang.

Caught the hunter, they tumbled to the ground, in a quick motion the hunter jabbed his stiff thumb into the spider ghost's windpipe. In that moment of distraction, the hunter pushed the spider ghost up with one hand and smashed a calculated blow across his left eye socket. The spider ghost's head snapped back, and the hunter squirmed for position to land a knee blow in the torn gut.

The spider ghost's head snapped back down and caught the hunter square in the forehead, knocking his head back to rebound against the gravel. For a moment the hunter lost focus, maybe lost consciousness. The spider ghost rolled to his feet and hauled him up.

Humanity burned clean in the cleansing fire of agony, the spider ghost was ready to finish this. The spider ghost was shorter than the hunter, but in a burst of strength he lifted him up off his feet. He spat on the hunter, and drew back for the killing blow.

The hunter rallied, and kicked the spider ghost's wounded knee with all the strength he could muster. Letting out a hoarse gasp of pain, the spider ghost let go, and the hunter smashed a blow across his face with both hands laced into a single mighty fist. The spider ghost was airborne, flipping, landing on its feet.

The hunter stooped and raked a handful of gravel into his fist, flinging it at the spider ghost, who raised his hands but did not dodge—

Did not notice the fist weight also thrown until it whirled between his fingers and smacked into his forehead; he reeled.

Consciousness was mostly gone when he launched himself in a fury at his tormentor; his move caught the hunter by surprise. He blasted into the hunter with his shoulder, and the hunter was lifted off his feet and sent flying through the air. He smacked down on the railroad ties in front of the incoming coal train. Made clumsy by pain, he rolled to the side and off as the train let loose an earsplitting blast, then it raced between the hunter and the hunted.

On a good night, the spider ghost would vault over the train and pursue his quarry.

Tonight he was glad to crawl away.

The first fistfuls of rain spattered down over the city.

**xXx**

The car pulled up to the curb next to the pay phone; the receiver was clacking against the plexiglass side of the booth, slowly twisting upside down on its cord. The car door opened, and the Doctor stepped out. He adjusted his collar against the wind, and glanced up and down the deserted street with his keen sight.

He moved to the phone, standing in its light, and looked around.

"Doc," came a whisper. The Doctor looked to the side and saw the blood slowly trickle down the side of the booth. He stepped back and looked up into the pale face and deadened eyes of Peter Parker.

Doctor Strange caught him as he toppled off the top of the phone booth. He lowered the crippled man to the sidewalk, then stood and shrugged off his coat.

"Keep life in him," he whispered to his coat as it was wrapped around the young man, "at least until I get him home."

**xXx**

"Am I dead?" Peter meant to ask, unwilling to find out if he was able to open his eyes or not. What he actually said was "gnuh?"

"Lie still," came a voice from very far away. Peter wasn't sure if he heard it or imagined it, but he knew who it belonged to.

"Strange," he thought to himself.

"I am here," the voice came to him silently.

"I'm in a lot of pain," Peter thought.

"I can ease that, or you can heal," Strange thought. "The pain brings healing with it."

"Thank you for coming for me," Peter thought.

Silence.

"You can open your eyes," Strange said aloud.

Peter opened one of his eyes, the other was swollen shut. Sunlight poured in the window. He found himself on a comfortable bed in a sparsely furnished room.

"You are in my home, and very fortunate to be alive, Mister Parker," Strange said. "I had to operate, but I believe you'll pull through. I also put four teeth back in their sockets; fortunately they were still in your mouth when I found you. I fixed the cracked ones. I think you'll be able to chew in a few days, if your jaw mends."

"My knee?" Peter managed.

Strange shrugged. "You'll probably be able to walk again, due to your unique physiology, but I can't promise full function. Maybe, maybe not. It wasn't fully healed from another experience; looked like a tearing wrench."

"Yeah," Peter said. "That knee has a bulls-eye painted on it, I think. How about my..." he gestured vaguely at his abdomen, "guts?"

Strange watched him for a moment. "You very nearly died," he said quietly. "I've repaired what I can. Your body has to do the rest."

Peter closed his eyes and tried to sense what time it was. His senses had completely lost the rhythm of his heartbeat, and did not know. "What time is it?" he asked, his voice hoarse and torn.

"Just after noon," Strange said. "You aren't ready for food, but I'll see if I can find something to re-hydrate you after your extensive blood loss." He smiled, his face saturnine. "Don't go anywhere until I get back," he said, and he was gone.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Peter whispered. "Can we reschedule our apartment hunt?" and an emotion welled up in him that he could not identify. "Gwen... what am I going to tell Gwen?" He slept a few moments later.


	4. Chapter 4

Sunset.

Peter sipped his chicken soup gingerly.

"I've set your hand as best I can," Strange said. "I've put dissolving stitches in your internal injuries, and stapled you shut. I operated on your knee and lined things up in there so you have a chance to heal, and put a brace on that. Your concussion is fading already. I did what I know to do with dental work. So, in a few weeks you'll be well on your way to recovery."

"I don't have a few weeks," Peter said, his voice haunted.

Strange was silent for a moment. "I can create an illusion of wholeness for you, and dull the pain, but you will not survive another fight."

"Because you can't heal me or because you won't heal me?" Peter asked, his voice oddly quiet.

"It doesn't matter, does it?" Strange replied, his eyes glittering. "Deal with the reality."

They looked deep into each other's eyes.

"I have a lot to think about, Doc," Peter said, looking away. "How about those illusions?"

The Doctor opened an ancient calligraphy set. "Here you are," he said, exposing the bandage over Peter's waist. He dipped the long brush in a peculiar foul-smelling ink, then in a swift series of motions painted a calligraphic glyph on the bandage. Then another.

"Keep these bandages on for seventy two hours," Strange said, "and after that you can dispose of them."

"Gotta love alternative medicine," Peter said with a wry smile. "After that, will I still look... mangled?" Peter asked, his voice worried.

"Depends on how much pain you accept, how fast you heal," Strange shrugged. His smile was almost wicked. "There's always makeup."

Peter slowly levered himself up off the bed. The Doctor wordlessly offered him a walking cane, which he accepted with a sideways glance.

"Be in touch," Strange said softly.

Peter nodded without making eye contact, and he left.

**xXx**

The science building was deserted; oh yeah, spring break. Not much going on Wednesday night, anyway. Peter limped through the building, reached the photo lab. This time he'd rip the door off its hinges if he had to.

Ah; no sign. Good. Peter went into the darkroom and locked the door.

Total darkness.

That felt somehow appropriate to him. He worked quickly and easily in the dark, tugging the film canister out and prying open the cartridge, unrolling the film. In a few quick motions he had attached the film to the reel.

Peter worked with human speed, still aching and stinging in every pore of his skin and every fiber of his muscle. Working as a human would have to do. He wondered if perhaps it wouldn't be a better idea to surrender this alternative life, to move away, escape the hunter. He felt that raw rage, that dim memory of pain and combat that he wasn't really present for. Next time? What would he do next time? If the hunter had not escaped, he would have been killed. Peter felt the agony that randomly streaked through his right hand. At least there was still no blood on that hand. None that would not wash away.

Peter dropped the reel into the plastic canister and screwed the lid on. He snapped on the dim red light. He poured developer in the canister.

Peter leaned back against the counter, turning the canister upside down. "Agitate it, indeed," he muttered under his breath. His senses monitored the process; he _always_ got good pics from his film.

"So it all comes down to one question, Peter Parker," he said to himself in the quiet isolation of the darkroom. "Is Sergei Kravinoff right about me? _Am_ I human?" In that profoundly quiet moment, he came face to face with his power and his mortality.

He turned the developing canister over, and sighed. "Yeah, deep thoughts in the dark sniffing fumes. Do my best thinking here." He shook his head.

He poured the developer out of the canister and poured water in, then set it on the counter. "So what are you going to do with your life?" he asked the canister, and the question was reflected back. "There will never be a better time to decide who and what I'm going to be." In the dark and the quiet he reflected on that, his eyes adjusted to the bloody red glow that suffused the dim room.

After a while, he poured out the water, and poured in fixer. Periodically turning the canister over, he brooded over the possibilities. Tried to imagine a life ignoring his power, or a life without Gwen or Aunt May or Harry or MJ or anyone else. His mind examined the issue from several sides, working carefully and systematically through the tangled issue and finding no relief. He turned the issue and the canister over slowly and carefully as he was lost in thought.

He drained out the fixer chemical and poured more water into the canister. "Right," he muttered. "So maybe that's not the answer. Maybe there _is_ no answer." That sobered him. He stopped thinking and began to simply feel.

A few minutes later, he blinked. "Hm," he said. "Maybe... maybe the questions... _are_ the answer." He looked at the canister, and drained the water. "If I wasn't human," he murmured, "could I wonder if I was?"

He unscrewed the canister and snapped on the light. He looked at the light through his negatives, and slowly smiled.

Most interesting developments indeed.

Time to get to work.

**xXx**

It was late when he stole into the house. He saw Aunt May asleep on the couch opposite the door. He moved over to her and knelt by her knee, touching her arm lightly.

She woke with a small gasp, and her worried face relaxed into relief when she saw him. She leaned forward and hugged him with surprising fierceness.

"Peter Parker," she said, "_where have you been!?!**"**_

****"I'm sorry I forgot to call," he said quickly. "A friend from school was in a car accident, and I've helped his family with bedside duties. I didn't think to call. Spring break," he shrugged. "I'm so sorry."

She sighed deeply. "I'm just glad you're safe, Peter," she said.

"We still on for supper with Gwen tomorrow?" he asked with a rakish smile.

"I hope so," Aunt May said worriedly. "She called, and she didn't sound very happy."

"I'll talk to her tomorrow," Peter said. "For now, though, you better get to bed, young lady." He smiled at her, and helped her up.

"Don't do this again, Peter," she scolded. "I was really worried."

"I'm sorry, Aunt May," Peter said. "It won't happen again."

Then she was in her room, and he was in his. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day. But he had much to do before he could sleep. He checked the time. Half past midnight. Plenty of time.

**xXx**

He wobbled along the sidewalk unsteadily on his borrowed bike, sniffing. The docks seemed a reasonable place to start. He pedaled slowly, testing the air as he went, winding up and down the streets. Almost two in the morning; he _had _to find the object of his search soon.

There. There, in the wind, that bitter acrid tang. Peter smiled, and steered his bike that direction, up the hill towards a run down residential area.

He had spat on Kravinoff, and now he would be able to track him to his new lair.

Less than an hour later, he pulled his bike up outside an empty apartment building. Slowly, gingerly, he climbed up the wall.

From the roof he glanced down into a large empty loft apartment. Far below, in a bathtub surrounded by incense and candles rested a broken and bloody man. Peter watched, fascinated, as Kravinoff lay motionless in the dim water. His face was swollen and discolored, and the bathwater was rusty pink. Peter focused a moment to make sure he still breathed. For a moment, watching the hunter in his vulnerability, he felt something like shame.

He shrugged it off and crept along the roof to the next skylight. After briefly examining it, he determined it was not trapped. Opening it, he slowly crept in, across the ceiling. He spun a very thin thread, and lowered a piece of paper on it to rest on Kravinoff's table. Then he crept to the skylight and left, down to the bike, on towards home.

Smiling.

Kravin slowly opened his eyes. Prey. His prey was close.

No more tussling. Kravinoff reached out of the tub and down to the double barreled shotgun next to him. Hauled his broken body out of the tub, water sluicing down his body. He sniffed. Damn, he was slow and sore.

He padded into the next room, ignoring the chill air of the dark of night. There, on the table. His eyes narrowed as he saw the folded piece of paper. He picked it up, glancing around. Opened it. Read it.

His forehead wrinkled in perplexity.

"What's your game?" he murmured to himself. One last glance around, and he backed out of the room. He sat back in the tub, running more hot water, and he brooded over the note.

Far away, Peter Parker slept like a baby.

**xXx**

Mid-morning, and Peter Parker was mobile. He walked up to the student newspaper office, and peeked in.

The office got very quiet. Peter held his breath and strolled in. "Hi, guys," he said. "Where's Gwen?"

All fingers pointed to a counter at the back. Peter headed to the back, where two girls were standing by Gwen, one on either side, and Gwen was bent over a broadsheet with her back to Peter.

"Hi, Gwen," Peter said. "Your dad said I could find you here."

"Where else would I be?" she said, her voice chilly. "You think I'd give up my work here to just, what, sit at home by the phone waiting for it to ring? I'd have to be a _real idiot_ to do _that_, don't you think, _Parker_?"

Peter winced. "Ouch. I deserved that in spades, Gwen, but... can we talk?" he asked, glancing around at the newspaper staff pretending to not follow the exchange with rapt interest. "In private?"

She looked at her assistants.

"We got it here," one said. "I mean, if you got something to do, this issue's in the bag, Gwen."

"Go on," said the other, making a small shooing motion with her hands. Gwen sighed, and turned to look at Peter.

"Fine, let's go," she said, and she brushed past him and snatched her coat and bag off the table. He followed her out, rubbing the back of his neck, ignoring the scattered giggles and applause that followed him out.

The wind was raw and a bit chilly after the rain that had dropped now and then over the previous day. Peter winced with the pain but managed to keep up with Gwen's rapid pace.

"So you want to tell me what happened?" she said, not facing him. "Did your _phone_ break down?"

"Not at all," he said. "I just had a kind of identity crisis. Life after college," he said. "Trying to figure out what I'm good at, what my fate is, and who is in my future." He looked out across the campus, stopping. She stopped too, but did not face him. He took a deep breath. "You know, when you come face to face with what you're doing with the rest of your life, it really changes the way you look at things."

He could _feel_ the tears that were building behind her eyes, closing her throat. He turned and walked up behind her.

"Gwen," he said softly, "there is no doubt in my mind that I want you to be part of my life. I just had to come to grips with that. I'm sorry I missed our date. Please come tonight."

She turned to look at him, her eyes bright with tears. "Peter," she said with a helpless gesture.

He quickly took her hand. "Aunt May has been cooking since dawn. It'll kill her if you don't come." He smiled. "Please?"

"Peter," she said, "what do I do with you?"

"Just what you've been doing," he said quickly. "Just be patient with me. I've been sorting some things out. I think everything is going to be okay. I know it is if you stay with me."

"Oh Peter," she said, tears spilling out of her beautiful eyes, "how could I do anything else?"

They embraced, and the wind whipped around them undeterred.

"I'll pick you up at four," he whispered, "or die trying."


	5. Chapter 5

Peter's arms ached; he sat on the couch unmoving while his forearms itched uncontrollably. He smiled to himself. His gut felt like it was on fire. Maybe, just maybe he'd live long enough to heal.

"Peter?" said Aunt May from the kitchen. "Will you set the table?"

"You betcha," he said, gingerly levering himself off the couch and heading for the kitchen.

"No, silly, the dining room," Aunt May said.

"Oh, right," Peter said. "Now you're sure you're okay with four and not three for dinner?"

"Of course," she said. "I like meeting your friends, Peter."

He kissed her on the cheek and snagged placemats and plates, heading into the other room.

"I don't figure him for being late, but I gotta go pick up Gwen," he said.

"I thought her name was Stacy," Aunt May said.

"It is, Aunt May, her name is Gwen Stacy."

"Oh," Aunt May said, and she resumed mashing the potatoes. "Supper will be ready by the time you get back."

"You're the best," Peter said, and he wasted no time setting the table and scooting out the front door. His car loved the month of April; started right up and purred like a kitten. He parked in front of the Stacy residence and left the engine running as he took the stairs one at a time, something that felt alien to him.

He knocked on the door, and it was opened by an older gentleman with a worn face and white hair.

"Hello, you must be the elusive Peter Parker," he said in a gentle baritone voice. He smiled and stuck a pipe in his teeth absently as his eyes roved the young man. Peter nervously wondered if he had combed his hair.

"In the flesh," he said with a grin.

"Mm," the gentleman said, his eyes narrowing and a small smile curling his lips.

"Da_ddy_," Gwen said from behind him, "he's not a criminal, quit. Hi Peter," she said, coming out from behind her father. Peter blinked.

Her hair was up and back in a twist. Her dress was very springtime; floral, all tight and loose in jus the right places, skirt below her knees but long enough to be almost naughty, backless. He absently noted her shoes matched perfectly, and happened to see the ankle bracelet. Woo. He smiled at her, just drinking her in for a moment.

Gwen's father chuckled, patted her on the shoulder, and headed into the interior of the house. Gwen tossed a fond and exasperated look back after him. "Come on, let's go," she said. "He's retired from the police force, he was a Captain and the best detective they ever had. When I get home he'll tell me all about you."

"Really," Peter said, suddenly nervous.

She shrugged. "Nothing personal. It's habit for him. And he's a bit protective of his little girl."

"_That_ I can understand," Peter said, letting his eyes wander her again. "You are flat out gorgeous, you know that?"

"Let's just get to your house," she said, trying to restrain a smile that wouldn't be restrained.

**xXx**

"Ta daaaa," Peter said, swinging the door open and gesturing her in with one gallant sweep. Gwen walked in, glancing all around, uncertain.

"Aunt May, we're back," Peter called. She appeared out of the dining room, in her good dress.

"Hello," she said, "I'm May Parker."

"Aunt May, this is Gwen Stacy," Peter said, remembering his manners.

"Pleased to meet you," Aunt May said, a blush in her cheeks.

Gwen stood tightly holding her bag. "I've heard a lot about you," she said with a smile. "All of it good."

"Has our other guest arrived?" Peter asked.

"Not yet," Aunt May said. "I have a few last minute things." She smiled, and headed into the kitchen, leaving them alone together.

"Other guest?" Gwen asked, arching her eyebrow at Peter.

He shrugged, hands out. "I didn't want it to get too personal the first time out, so I invited another friend of mine. Is that okay? He's not going to help me take you home, pretty lady," Peter said, sweeping her into his arms and ignoring the stab of pain in his gut.

"Parker," she said, shaking her head with a smile, "You are a loon."

klud klud klud. Heavy blows hit the front door.

"Easy, easy," Peter said under his breath. He moved to the front door and opened it.

"Sergei, old pal, glad you could make it," he said to the hulking man on the doorstep. "You okay? That car accident must have been a doozy. Glad you're up and around."

"I am... up and around," Kravinoff said to him. One eye was swollen shut, he had scratches on his face, and great pain was written in his posture.

"I'm just glad they let you out of the hospital," Peter said. "I'd welcome you to my parlor, but... heh... nobody has a parlor anymore." They exchanged a tense look. "Come on in and have a seat before you fall over." He led the huge man into the dining room and helped him into his seat, ignoring the stare the big man gave him. "Okay, we're all here. Ah, Aunt May. Sergei Kravinoff, this is May Parker. May, this is Sergei. He's the one who was in that car accident that kept me busy yesterday."

"You poor thing," Aunt May said, worry creasing her forehead. "Was it one of those sport utility vehicles? I hear they're so dangerous!"

Sergei's thin nostrils flared, and he looked sideways at Peter. "Indeed, it was one of those American trucks." He shut his mouth in a thin line.

"Well, buddy, I hope you're hungry," Peter said with a grin. "We have roast beef, potatoes, carrots, cabbage, biscuits, gravy, corn, and for dessert cherry pie and ice cream. You have come to the right place for dinner."

"It seems so," Sergei muttered.

He was seated at the end of the table, opposite Aunt May. Peter and Gwen sat facing each other. Aunt May brought out the salad, and they got started.

"Isn't this great weather for April?" Peter said. Great, Parker, the weather. Genius.

"Bit windy for my tastes," Aunt May said.

"I like rain," Sergei said abruptly. "My place has skylights. I can watch the rain come down. It is very relaxing." He didn't take his eyes off Peter for more than a moment.

"I like the wind," Gwen said airily. "Great weather for flying." She smiled at Peter, and he just got lost in her dimples.

"Uh, so Mister Kravinoff, what do you do for a living?" asked Aunt May.

"I am a collector," he said. "Very boring."

"Yeah, and he's an amateur boxer, too," Peter grinned. "A little slow, but he's got some power if he can ever hit."

"Would that make you student of the ballet?" Kravinoff said, eyeing Peter.

"Oh, Peter was never a _dancer_," Aunt May said, "but when he was in elementary school—"

"No, come on," Peter said, "mercy!"

"When he was in elementary school," Aunt May continued primly, her eyes sparkling with excitement, "He was a spider in the school play, and he had a crush on the girl that played Miss Muffett."

"Amy Lobowski. Great story. So who do you figure for the playoffs this year?"

"A spider?" Gwen said. "How cute! Did they lower him from the ceiling?"

"Oh no, they would have, but he was afraid of heights, so they let him creep over the hill behind her," Aunt May said.

"Still afraid of heights?" Sergei asked pointedly.

"I got over it," Peter gritted.

"After supper," Aunt May said, "I have a picture of it if you want to see."

"Do I ever!" Gwen said with a giggle of delight. She threw a look at Peter, who groaned.

Aunt May had _lots_ of pictures.

**xXx**

"Great supper, Aunt May," Peter said, pushing back from the table. "Now while you and Gwendy look over the Albums of Shame, Sergei and I are going to take a walk. Settles the digestion."

It was not much longer before the two men were limping down the sidewalk, getting out of sight of the house.

"Glad you came," Peter said with a suppressed smile.

"You offered most intriguing bait," Kravinoff said, removing the creased paper from his pocket. He cleared his throat. "'Sergei Kravinoff,' it begins, 'Please come to dinner at my house tomorrow night. The Spider Ghost.' What is your game, spider ghost?" growled the hunter.

"I figured supper was the least I could do to thank you," Peter said, looking straight ahead as he walked within arms reach of the big man. "Because of you, I was forced to come face to face with my life and with who and what I am."

The hunter waited. Peter lowered his head.

"I am more than a beast, Kravinoff. I am a man. For you to kill the spider ghost, you have to kill the man who shares a body with it. A human life is bound up in your quarry. I don't have the mouth to go on about this all day." He stopped and faced Kravinoff.

"Animals may have camouflage, and suspicion, but they cannot doubt. When you came hunting me, I doubted, Kravinoff. I doubted whether I was truly human or not. In wondering about that, I realized only a human could ponder that question. One thing more," he said, opening his coat. He reached in and pulled out a long serrated survival knife, still bearing traces of blood.

"An animal cannot sacrifice itself for an intangible ideal," Peter said. "If after eating with my aunt, meeting the woman that loves me, and seeing where I live you still think you need to harvest the spider ghost, even at that cost, then _do it._ I will not stop you. I will not kill you, and I'm through playing tag. This is your chance." Peter handed him the knife.

The hunter slowly reached out and took the knife, then glanced around. No one was nearby, no one would see, and behind him were bushes that could hide the act. He warily sifted through, looking for the trap.

His face hardened, and he put the knife away in his belt, out of sight. A smile toyed with the corner of his brutalized mouth.

"You surprise me again, Peter Parker," he said. "I don't know what to say. You make a compelling case, well done, and you have courage I cannot deny." He sighed and shook his head. "You have outdone me. The spider ghost has found cover I cannot bring myself to breach."

Peter let out a breath, and noticed he was trembling. "Thank you," he said. "But after all your effort, I don't think you should leave without a trophy." He reached into his coat, and so did the hunter.

"Easy," he said. "Relax." He pulled a small bundle from his coat, and tugged the string off.

"You succeeded in your hunt, Kravinoff," Peter said. "You made me come face to face with what I could be, and you made me choose my path. I didn't like it, but you sure did give me inspiration. Because of you, I will not let what you feared happen to me." Peter gave a tug, and the bundle unreeled.

"A silk tie?" Kravinoff said, his voice amused.

"I made it for you myself," Peter said, his voice serious. He smiled. "You earned this one, pal."

Sergei Kravinoff took the tie, and looked deep into Peter Parker's eyes. Then he shook his head and chuckled.

"You are full of surprises, spider ghost," he said. He held his tie up to the light. "Fine work, this."

"Oh, one other thing," Peter said.

"Yes?"

"If I ever become the menace you thought I was?" Peter said, his voice grave. "Finish the hunt."

Sergei offered his hand, and Peter took it. Left to left, of course; neither got much use out of their right hands. They looked into each other's eyes once more, then the hunter spun on his heel and strode down the sidewalk without looking back.

Peter smiled, breathed deep, and noticed how wonderful the spring air suddenly smelled.

**xXx**

"Oh, Peter, you're just in time for junior high!" Gwen called as he came back inside.

"Oh God," Peter muttered. "Don't go through them all at once, save some for later," he called back. "Besides, I should take you home."

"Thanks, Aunt May," Gwen said as she gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "See you around!"

"Goodbye!" Aunt May said.

"I'll be back later; you know, later," Peter grinned as he helped Gwen into her coat. "Bye!"

They headed down the steps toward the car. "Come on, slowpoke!" Gwen said. "Usually I can't keep up with you."

"I'm a tired, worn out man," Peter said.

"Too tired for a movie, hot shot photographer?" she said.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Well," she said, batting her eyes, "I rented _Creature from the Black Lagoon_. A little birdie told me it was your _favorite_."

"I'll bet," Peter muttered. "You like those old Universal monster movies?"

"Of course," Gwen said as they approached the car. "The hero always beats the monster against all odds then ends up with the girl. What's not to like?"

"Yeah," Peter muttered, thinking of Strange. "I guess the monster always loses."

"At least in the _good_ movies," Gwen sniffed. "And a lady has to like a movie where she gets the hero of the piece."

"Is that so?" Peter said, unlocking the car.

"That's so," she said, wrapping her arms around him and looking him in the eye.

"Looks like you caught me," Peter said.

"Damn straight, man o' mine," she said, her voice low.

Their kiss was gentle, which was just fine with Peter Parker. They disengaged, and he grinned.

"I chased you and chased you and chased you until you caught me, is that it?" he said.

"Something like that," she said, looking positively elfin as she grinned in the moonlight.

Peter couldn't help but laugh.


End file.
